


The BARF Job

by burbear



Category: Leverage, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Humor, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Pre-Relationship, Starring Bucky Barnes as Eliot Spencer, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burbear/pseuds/burbear
Summary: “All of the information you’ll need is on here,” the client explains. He unlocks the tablet and pokes at the screen for a moment. “I can walk away while you watch it, but I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with it. I’m… I’m sure you’ll understand once you see.”Hardison taps the white triangle and the screen dims for a moment, brightening into fuzzy focus until the video clears to cellphone quality.The breath in Eliot’s lungs freezes when he sees the woman at the piano.“Oh, hell no,” Hardison says. “Nate, we are dropping this.”--The Leverage team get asked to steal technology back from Tony Stark, and Hardison isn't the only one panicking.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 166
Collections: 2019 WinterIron_Holiday_Exchange





	The BARF Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marsmaywander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marsmaywander/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, I hope you enjoy my biannual posting of winteriron fusions! It's important to have a brand.
> 
> And as always, a huge thank you to Writerly, the best pegasus ever 💚 love you!!!
> 
> Also: I am posting this from my phone while at work so... mistakes will be fixed when I get home :'D (psych lol "when I get home" apparently means four days later - work sucks and i'm tired a lot, so sorry y'all - all that's changed is some cosmetic stuff plus an extra half sentence at the end)

_2014, Washington, D.C._

It is a peculiar thing to see one’s self in a museum. Marked as belonging to history, for a history, for a version of history. The Asset is… unnerved by it.

Things are different now, inside his head. For one he is, in fact, referring to himself as a “he.” For two, there are memories. Memories that rush to the forefront, clamoring for a chance to be remembered; be it for good or for ill his brain does not care, all that matters is he remembers.

And being here, in this museum, the Asset certainly experiences recognition. It isn’t true recall, that organic thing pulled from the ether of the mind. He sees himself, called here Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky to his friends; he sees himself next to the man on the bridge—Captain America— _Steve_ , and he recognizes the men in the video who are himself and the man on the bridge as being friendly, laughing and smiling.

The Asset tries to access that specific memory, then any memory where he experienced something like that, and there is nothing he can connect to.

In the end the Asset leaves the museum with more questions than answers. Perhaps James Buchanan Barnes is dead after all—continuing his life seems… wrong, in a way. James Buchanan Barnes barely remembers who he is, and surely he was more than a sniper who fell from a train, more than Steve’s best friend, certainly more than—

Well, no. The Asset has been alive twice longer than James Buchanan Barnes ever was.

The Asset comes to his first big decision. He battles himself for days, going back and forth fighting who he used to be and what he is now, but the truth is for him that there is no other path at this time.

Until James Buchanan Barnes can remember himself, if he _can_ truly remember himself—until then, he will be someone else.

-

_Five years later, Chicago, IL_

Everyone knows he works alone. He prefers it that way. Safer in the end, for them, for him. So when he gets called for a job, he assumes he’s the only one involved.

Being lied to is something that really, truly pisses him off, but he overlooks it this once, because the money is good and because everyone knows about Nate Ford. If there’s one thing he can trust, it’s that Nate Ford will not stand for injustice no matter where it comes from. He appreciates that.

It’s supposed to be an easy job. And it is, for the most part. He does what he does best—keeps the important people safe and gets the package where it is meant to be. Files get sent, money drops into his account. Job done.

Except that he doesn’t get paid.

For Eliot Spencer, it’s the principle of the thing. Twice on this job he’s been lied to, and he would have let it go, really. The thing that irks him is that Victor Dubenich thought he could kill him—and, yeah, three other people—with something as pedestrian as a bomb and get away with it.

The second Nate suggests revenge, Eliot’s in. And he... has a lot of fun. Sure, seeing Dubenich gets what he has coming to him is inherently satisfying, but the easy banter with the rest of the team, getting to do more than punching or killing people in his way, to be seen as something, someone capable of being more than a blunt weapon?

For Eliot, the decision comes easy. Using his vast knowledge of fighting and weaponry—down to their very distinctive sounds—obtained over a long, brutal lifetime for something good? It feels right. True.

He thinks Steve would be proud of him.

-

_...Five more years later, Portland, OR_

Typically, when the Leverage team gets contacted, the client makes themselves known fairly immediately, either through revealing it themselves or through Hardison’s skills in electronic tracking.

This time, amidst the rest of the mail, a clean, white, unmarked envelope sits in the pub’s PO box.

After a healthy amount of arguing fueled by a mix of curiosity and paranoia, Nate opens the envelope and pulls out a tri-folded piece of white paper with black typewritten letters.

Eliot bites back any further protests as Nate pinches the letter between his finger and thumb, holding it up to the light. “‘To whom it may concern,’” Nate says slowly, a smile tugging at his mouth. Nate squints as he scans the rest, softly whispering some of the text as he goes. Eliot hears “can’t risk being tracked” and “being watched,” which is all very standard. “No cellphones or electronic devices” is one he’s heard before, too. Security feels different for everyone, but something about this feels… off. Eliot doesn’t want to touch this job with a ten foot pole.

Nate Ford has to be different, though.

“Well, it seems someone very powerful and very wealthy—”

“Redundant,” Sophie mutters.

“—has stolen technology from a former employee, the person who is reaching out to us, technology that, in the wrong hands, could—”

“Destroy the world?” Parker supplies.

Nate sighs. “More or less, yes. They’re too afraid to mention the employer by name and want to meet us in a public place, where we’ll be subject to scanning for any electronic devices.”

“Money on the employer being Hammer, hell, even AIM,” Hardison says. He rubs his mouth and shakes his head. “This is either a prank taken too far or something that should get mailed to the Avengers’ compound.”

Eliot bristles at the mention of the Avengers, hands clenching into fists and ready to voice his own opinion on that idea.

“No, no, let’s not involve them,” Nate murmurs. “This is… odd, sure, but we’ve handled worse.”

The scoff escapes him with no chance of being reined in. “Handled worse? What the— _the hell_ do you mean ‘we’ve handled worse’?”

Silence settles for a few seconds.

“I was buried alive,” Hardison offers.

“Does dealing with Jim Sterling in any capacity count?” Sophie asks.

“I’ve been shot, we’ve been blown up a few times,” Nate adds.

“I had to stab a guy with a fork to get him to stop hitting on me.”

“Parker, we all know you enjoyed that, don’t lie.”

“Yeah, but it was still horrible. That guy was gross.”

“Alright, fine, I get it. But I don’t want any of you crying to me when this goes south. I don’t like this,” Eliot says, glaring at the letter.

Nate tips his head in Eliot’s direction and nods. “I don’t either, but you’ve gotta admit, it is… interesting. Someone went to a lot of work to contact us.”

“Yeah, someone with an extreme aversion to being identified,” says Hardison. “And you know what, I can appreciate someone finally taking my advice and not relying on technology but come on, even I have limits. I just, I don’t know, Nate, this seriously reads like someone trying to lure us somewhere for a good old fashioned whacking.”

Eliot snorts. “Whacking?”

“Yeah, you know, like offing us, as in to kill, murder—”

“I know what ‘whacking’ is. I also know no one even says that anymore.”

“Man—”

Nate brings his fingers to his mouth and produces a shrill whistle, cutting them off. “Oh good, you’re done? Then we can get back to this.”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, knowing that they’re going ahead with this, Eliot settles in.

-

The meet is at the park about eight blocks up the road from the pub.Their client is a short, bespectacled and balding man somewhere in his fifties. Twitchy, nervous, though the relief comes off him in waves when he sees Nate. They’re apparently allowed to sit where they like, as no electronic devices have been detected on their person as they approached.

Nate and Sophie sit next to their client on one of the benches, Parker and Hardison on the bench across from them, and Eliot posts up next to a tree. Nothing looks out of place.

God, he doesn’t like this.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Ford, my name’s William,” the man begins, “and yes, that’s all I’m afraid I can give you at the moment. You see, it’s… well, I used to work for a very powerful man and…”

“Take your time,” Nate says.

William sucks in a shuddering breath. “Thanks. It’s hard, knowing how much people love him when really he’s just as egotistical as he’s always been. And given what he’s stolen… I’m not asking for anything other than the technology back, anything more than that is too dangerous.”

Eliot tenses as William reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tablet.

“All of the information you’ll need is on here,” William explains. He unlocks the tablet and pokes at the screen for a moment. “I can walk away while you watch it, but I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with it. I’m… I’m sure you’ll understand once you see.”

Nate nods and, once William is far enough away, hands the tablet to Hardison, who looks it over. “Pretty standard,” Hardison says at last.

“But?” Nate asks.

“But… I don’t know, nothing. All it’s got on it is the one video.”

Hardison taps the white triangle and the screen dims for a moment, brightening into fuzzy focus until the video clears to cellphone quality.

The breath in Eliot’s lungs freezes when he sees the woman at the piano.

“Oh, hell no,” Hardison says. “Nate, we are dropping this.”

With a quick jab Nate pauses the video and motions for William to come back. The man’s face falls but he hurries over, and Eliot notices William’s even more unsure what to do with his hands once he glances at the tablet. “Oh, did you watch the whole thing—?”

“We saw enough,” Nate says. “You want us to steal from Tony Stark?”

William’s eyes go wide at the name and he glances around. “Shh! And, yes, I know it sounds crazy, but that technology in the wrong hands—”

Nate’s eyes are sharp, sizing William up. “And how do we know yours are the right ones?”

“Not mine,” William says. “I’m here… on behalf of a friend, someone who also worked for… _him_. My friend created the technology that makes those glasses what they are, and what has he done with them since that presentation? Nothing! No new research published, no news about advances in trauma therapies, nothing!”

“How do you know he’s not doing anything with them?” Sophie asks.

William pinches the bridge of his nose, shrugs. “Who are we talking about, here? He hops from one project to the next if it catches enough of his interest. That presentation was in 2016, more than enough time for him to have done it himself or thrown enough money at it to get it done. Look, Mr. Ford, all my friend wants is those glasses, his program is on them.”

“Where are the glasses, exactly?”

William is quick to reply, “In the R&D department of the New York branch of Stark Industries. I have detailed instructions—” He cuts himself off and stares at Nate, then the rest of them, hope in his eyes. “Does that mean… will you do it?”

Nate looks to each of them in turn, lingering on Eliot for a moment. There’s a flash of something in his eyes, there and gone too fast for Eliot to recognize, enough to distract him from making any objections when Nate says, “Yeah, we’ll do it.”

\--

_A week later, Manhattan, NY_

Eliot sits in his hotel room, flipping his fake ID card over in his hands. The word “Stark” catches his eye every other turn, the unease churning in his gut and surging up his throat when he thinks about the video William showed them.

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. He already knows it’s Nate from the knock, but he checks the peephole anyway.

Eliot cracks the door open reluctantly.

“Hey, you ready?”

“Yeah, just about,” Eliot says. He swallows hard. “Can I talk to you for a sec, though?”

“Sure.” Nate walks through the space Eliot gives him, sitting on the bed as Eliot locks the door back. “What’s going on?”

“Nate, I…” Eliot sighs. He rubs his forehead. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Why not?”

A bubble of hysteria threatens to crack his calm facade. “Would you accept ‘I can’t tell you’?”

“Can’t?” Nate asks. “Or won’t?” When Eliot doesn’t respond, Nate exhales. “Look, Eliot. Obviously there’s some history here. I don’t know what it is, I don’t need to. What I do know is this team, this family, has got your back, and there’s nothing that can change that.”

Eliot exhales, breath shaky. “You sure?”

“Positive. Now come on, the others are waiting.”

He nods, clips on his badge, pulls his hair back, and leaves with Nate.

The familiarity of his team with him allows him to sink into the mindset for the job. Getting in is always the easiest part. Eliot expects at least a little pushback, but all he has to do was flirt a bit with some engineers, call upon that charm he never truly lost while Parker swipes the glasses from their case, replacing them with a close match. On a surface level, anyway.

All of that doesn’t get Eliot’s back up, no. What irks him is how easy it is getting out. Usually someone notices by now, alarms start tripping, they have to run—it’s standard for higher security places like this, yet the job is running like the smoothest grift ever done.

“Alright, everybody, nice work,” Nate murmurs through the earpiece. “Let’s get outside and make the handoff.”

They’re nearly halfway to the handoff when Eliot spots William about a block away walking toward them. There’s another man with him, likely the friend he’d talked about. “Incoming,” he says. “Guess they couldn’t wait.”

“Mm, unfortunate.” Nate stops in the middle of the sidewalk and scans the street. “Let’s cross here and sit at the bistro.”

From his peripheral vision Eliot watches William get a little more anxious. His friend claps him on the shoulder, steering them to the nearest crosswalk at a brisk pace, and that’s when Eliot hears it.

It’s a low hum, about two tables away.

A very distinctive hum.

“Nate, I sure hope you know what you’re doin’,” he says.

“Of course I do,” Nate replies easily. He stands as the other two approach. “Gentlemen, good to see you, if a bit… earlier and in a different place than expected. Shall we get down to it?”

“Then you have them?” William asks, clearly eager, either to have his friend’s property returned or to be out of this situation. Possibly both.

“Hey, easy,” his friend says, laughing. There’s a hard quality to his eyes, though. “I’m Quentin Beck, and I’m so thankful you’ve returned what was stolen.”

A patron coughs behind them, in the direction of the distinctive hum. Eliot’s eye twitches.

Nate clears his throat. “Of course. Parker?”

She holds up a phone, a tiny chime going off. “Money’s there,” she says, and hands Nate the box.

“Excellent. Well, here you go, then. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Riva, Mr. Beck.”

“Believe me,” Beck says lowly, opening the box and slipping on the glasses. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

Eliot watches them walk away.

Another cough, then the distinctive hum gets closer.

“So, not to be impatient or anything, but generally how long does one wait for the bad guys to make off with the goods before going after them?” Tony Stark asks casually, taking off a familiar set of sunglasses—the same sunglasses, Eliot notes, as the ones Parker had switched out with the ones they’d just handed over, and those amused eyes look at Nate, waiting.

“Depends on the bad guy,” Nate answers coolly. “But, you know, in the next thirty seconds, give or take.”

Stark nods. “Alrighty then. JARVIS, say hello to the Leverage team and give them their escape routes.”

“Of course, Sir,” a voice says in Eliot’s ear. In everyone’s ear, apparently, as the rest of his team look at each other, shocked. “Lovely to finally meet you, Mr. Hardison, Miss Parker, Miss Devereaux, Sergeant Barnes.”

A silence falls over the table. Even Stark does a double take.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky and Stark say simultaneously.

Suddenly, the ground trembles beneath their feet, explosions going off in the direction Riva and Beck left in.

“Shit,” they all say in unison.

“Get the civilians somewhere safe _now_ , Barnes!” Stark yells, the suit forming around him. He takes off immediately.

“Apologies, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS says. “My facial recognition finished just before Sir met with you, and my protocols are to keep him safe, including relaying pertinent information no matter how many times he silences me.”

Something inside Bucky bristles at _protocols_.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll take that one on the chin, Jay, you were right on this one.”

Bucky tunes out the chatter in his ear, focusing on the tasks at hand. He directs the civilians towards safe routes, hustling with them to the parking garage so he can get what he needs out of the car.

He hates having to use guns, but there are cases where exceptions can be made, he thinks as he pops open the trunk and straps as many as he can to his person.

“Mr. Hardison, you’re going to need to move away from that vehicle—”

A shriek bursts over the comms. “No kidding, man? Damn! I am trying to reprogram drones and run, do you know how hard that is to do?”

“As I have no physical body, no, though I am running quite a lot of tasks at the moment.”

A spike of worry makes its home in Bucky’s chest. He turns the safety off both guns in his hands and runs as fast as he can out of the parking garage. “Hardison, talk to me, where are you?”

“Parker, please tell him, I am busy—”

“Hardison says he’s busy.”

As Stark laughs in the background, Bucky rolls his eyes. “Where are you, Parker?”

“Head north for about three hundred feet, then take a left by the three car pile-up. Watch out for ‘Mysterio’ on your way there.”

“Who?”

“That’s what Beck is calling himself, Winter Wonderland,” Stark chimes in. “Came in saying he was going to save us all from this sudden threat—is this asshole _flying_?”

“If you recall, Sir, William Riva had a hand in building the—”

“Iron Monger suit, right. Forgot that little tidbit. Definitely recognize the drones, when I can see them, anyway.”

As Bucky rounds the edge of the car accident Parker mentioned, he sees what Stark is talking about and unloads a clip immediately, cover fire more than anything. He manages to make it explode right next to another one, sending it careening off course into another shot fired by Bucky.

Tossing the gun, he turns and empties the other gun, this time mainly aiming for Beck and that stupid helmet. He throws the gun at the helmet for good measure, grinning when Beck fails to block and the glass cracks.

With that, Bucky grabs two more guns and finds his friends huddled up behind a decorative pillar for a local business.

“I knew he was Bucky Barnes. I told you, I TOLD you, but does anybody listen to me? No,” Hardison complains. He points at Bucky, eyes narrowed. “I knew, dammit, I knew!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbles. He opens his mouth to say something, cocks his head, then shoves both Hardison and Parker away from the line of fire, just making it behind the building.

“I knew,” Nate says. “Just didn’t think it mattered.”

The sentiment eases his shoulders away from his ears. He can’t focus on it now, perhaps later, maybe, when this is all over and everyone can have a good laugh about it. Bucky peeks around the corner, signaling his friends to move back. “Thanks,” he grunts. He edges his way further down the alley, keeping an eye on the opening facing the street.

“Uh, Eliot—”

“Parker, he’s not Eliot—”

“Whatever, Iron Man is right there!”

Bucky curses under his breath. “Get down!” he yells, tackling them in time to feel the heat of the repulsor fly over him, destroying another drone. Another shot takes down the drone behind it.

The suit touches down with a loud thunk. Bucky looks up at the same time as the faceplate lifts, meeting worried brown eyes that seem to take in _everything_.

“You got this?” Stark asks.

Bucky gives him a curt nod. Stark pushes the faceplate down, and Bucky feels like he can breathe again. He helps Parker and Hardison get to their feet as the brilliant red and gold armor blasts off into the air again.

“Alright, Hardison, tell me how we’re doin’,” Bucky says. “I’m gonna need more bullets or guns pretty soon, here. A clip per drone is not ideal circumstances.”

“I mean, as much time as you can give me is always preferable,” Hardison replies, typing furiously. “Two minutes, minimum, if you can keep the fire off of us and I don’t have to move anywhere.”

Bucky rolls his neck. “Staying put it is, then.” He rips off his left sleeve, taking the covering off with it to expose the shining metal of his arm. With a gun in each hand, he watches.

Waits.

The holograms are good, he’ll give Beck that. Enough to fool anyone not truly _seeing_ like Bucky has all his life, and he’s not fooled. It only takes him half a second to spot the shiver in reality, he holds his breath.

Fires.

Exhales when the drone explodes.

Iron Man gives them good cover too, distracting when he can and taking out projectors when he can’t. Bucky’s still mad Nate went behind his back with Stark, but he understands why it needed to be done. Beck’s enough of a problem without having access to Stark’s satellites.

In fact, Bucky can hear Stark quipping something at Beck, his voice somewhat digitized, when Bucky spots the telltale shiver behind him. Bucky fires, not pausing to relax when Iron Man turns around to give him a two-fingered salute, and briefly Bucky remembers something similar happening decades ago, cursing Steve in his head when his position was given away.

“Hardison,” Bucky says, a warning note in his voice. “How we doin’ back there?”

“I hope you’re ready for it,” Hardison says, and the glee in his voice makes Bucky smile.

“Don’t say it—”

“Age of the geek, baby!” he crows. There’s a final click, and Bucky watches all of the projectors fail, the drones drop out of the sky, and Quentin Beck, left alone to face Iron Man and the Winter Soldier steadily advancing on him.

\--

“So,” Stark says. “All in all, I think that went about as well as it could have, right? Right.”

“Oh, my thoughts exactly, Mr. Stark,” Nate replies. “Couldn’t have pulled it off without you.”

Stark lifts a careless shoulder. “Oh, naturally. Beck asked for the best and he got the best. And you, hide-and-seek world champion,” Stark says, looking at Bucky. “I know a guy who’s looking for you—”

“Yeah.” Bucky scratches at his neck, hoping for a good explanation to manifest itself. It doesn’t. “About that. The guy he's lookin' for... I’m… I’m not exactly that guy anymore.”

“Well,” Sophie starts, smiling gently, “identity is what we make it. Whoever you decide you are, you’re still one of us.”

“Yep, no changing that, Buckeliot,” Parker says firmly.

Warmth blooms in his chest, sudden and unexpected, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He glances at Stark, struck for a moment by how soft his expression is, the thoughtfulness in his eyes.

“Technically,” Stark says. He stops, seems to wage an internal battle, and starts again. “Technically, I don’t have to say anything. That was… Eliot, right? I can say that was Eliot Spencer out there and it wouldn’t be lying.”

Bucky snorts. “Technically?”

Stark nods.

Bucky looks at Nate, Sophie, Parker, and Hardison in turn. “It was a bit of both out there,” he says finally, flexing his metal arm. “If. If Steve wants to come by the pub, that would be… okay, I think.”

“How about me, do I get to come, too?” Stark asks. “I am very interested in what your chef skills are like.”

Bucky takes a second to process that Tony Stark knows he’s a chef for a brewpub, among other things. “I’m willing to discuss terms.” He jerks his head away from the team. “Just for a minute?”

Stark gestures for Bucky to lead the way and follows along. “So, what’s gotcha all secret squirrel all of a sudden?”

The words stick like a lump in his throat. It’s one thing to accept blanket forgiveness from his family of thieves, but he can’t ask that of Stark. “It’s about December sixt—”

Abruptly Stark holds up a hand. “Gonna stop you right there, Barnes. I already know.”

Bucky blinks. “You… already know? Did Steve—”

“Tell me? Sure, after I asked him about it once I’d gone through Romanov’s filedump.” Stark takes a deep breath. “If you had come to me with it then, when it was still raw and new, I probably would have lashed out at you somehow. But I’ve had the gift of time, and so have you, and I know you’ve been doing your best with that.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, his voice soft.

Stark’s smile is small, but it’s genuine. “Yeah. So if you need forgiveness you have it, and if you don’t? Then at least know I don’t blame you, not anymore.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve it,” Bucky mumbles.

“Like it can’t be that easy?” Stark asks. “Yeah, I get that. Took me a long time to get that it could be, if I let it.”

“Thank you.” Bucky holds out his right hand and Stark takes it. His skin is warm against Bucky’s, and it’s… nice. “I’ll… try to let it be easy.”

“In the meantime, you can feed me incredible bar food,” Stark suggests with a wink and a smirk.

“Only if you leave me a five star review on Yelp.”

“Tough negotiator, I like that.”

Over the course of his life, Bucky Barnes has lost a lot, even his sense of self. He’ll never be that Bucky Barnes again, regardless of what he remembers, but that’s… okay. Identity is what he’ll make of it, and as he glances over at Tony Stark cracking jokes with Hardison and Parker while Nate and Sophie look on fondly, he thinks about his worlds merging.

It’s good. It won’t fit perfectly, but that’s okay, none of them are perfect.

And, wouldn’t you know it, when the ragtag team of Avengers come piling into his brewpub and Tony Stark demands the chef's special with those distracting eyes of his and Bucky obliges with a little more presentation than strictly necessary? Steve’s proud of him.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: _Leverage fusion: While on the run (post-CAWS, pre-CACW), Bucky's alias *is* Eliot Spencer. The team has a run-in with Tony while on a mission - Bucky didn't realize Tony was the target; Tony didn't realize he was being framed._
> 
> Happy Holidays!


End file.
